A Rock and a Hard Place
by Ashtree1165
Summary: Emotions were a tricky subject when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He tolerated few, and loved fewer. So why couldn't he get a certain Pathologist out of his head? SHERLOLLY ONE-SHOT


**This takes place a bit before the wedding in the span of months between The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three as will most likely the rest of the story because I'm not quite sure what to do following the ending of His Last Vow. So...**

**This is John/Mary Sherlolly, so if you strongly despise that, then just leave. Thank you!**

**I'll do my best to keep it all canon.**

* * *

A Rock And A Hard Place

Emotions were a tricky subject when it came to Sherlock Holmes. They always had been, ever since he was a kid and they'd scarcely gotten better as the years progressed. Feelings just befuddled and baffled the great Detective. They were unpredictable, unreliable, and unnecessary. They inclined one to do something they would never dream of doing if their judgement wasn't clouded so.

He never quite got the hang of the whole _feelings_ thing. It was hard to learn how to express yourself when you had no one to express yourself to growing up. He couldn't talk to his parents, they were too dull, too idiotic, they would never be able to fully understand. And Mycroft was definitely not an option either. His brother was as stiff as a board and could be as cold as a stone. The two had scarcely gotten along since Sherlock was nine years old and Mycroft indulged his fantasies of Red Beard the Pirate. Though Sherlock would admit their was a certain comfort given by his presence. He didn't have to pretend in front of Mycroft. Because Mycroft was no better than he was, in fact when it came to emotions, he was worse than Sherlock.

He liked to think he had a better understanding of human emotions since John. He'd meant what he said at the wedding, John had saved him. He'd bettered him. Made him truly human. Because of John, Sherlock was finally living up to his full potential. He was a man, not a cold sociopath -well, that was still up for debate according to Mycroft and most of the Yard.

These past months since Sherlock's return to the real world, he'd felt more human than ever.

That was all thanks to John and his lovely fiançé, Mary Morstan. She was one of the few to just except Sherlock wholeheartedly. John's trust in him seemed to be all Mary needed. It was the mutual trust those two held in him that kept him standing strong.

Those two and Ms. Molly Hooper of course. As completely average as the woman was, Sherlock found that after all these years he still held a lasting interest in her. Maybe it was her compassion, maybe it was her odd fashion sense, maybe it was that her constant attempts to gain his attention had finally payed off. It was rare that someone like her actually showed genuine interest in somebody like him. She genuinely cared about him.

At first he found her fascination annoying, just a passing fad, she'd get over it. She was just a scientist who saw Sherlock as a mystery that she had to get to the bottom of. But for some reason her interest held like adhesive. Molly had become a constant in his life, the affable pathologist who responded to his unannounced morgue visits with a smile.

And Sherlock just couldn't get past that. Why would she care?

Why did he care if she cared?

He knew he shouldn't. He didn't have time for someone supposedly so dull.

But then one day, Sherlock asked for help, and Molly Hooper became extraordinary. She rose to the occasion and helped save the man Sherlock would die for. She was even better than Sherlock could have imagined. Without her, he never could have pulled it off. And either John Watson or Sherlock Holmes would be lying dead on the streets of London. And Sherlock couldn't have that.

No, Molly Hooper wasn't just some ordinary girl. She counted so much more than she would ever know. And Sherlock just wished he could show her just how much.

Sherlock needed Molly.

He needed her to _understand_.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Molly asked, her voice a bit shaky with uncertainty. She did nothing but watch as Sherlock hunched over a microscope for the past few minutes. But that certain look had clouded over his eyes not long ago. That look that Molly had learned to read expertly. It was his thinking face. And it was painfully obvious to Molly it wasn't his experiment he was thinking so hard about.

Sherlock looked up at the pathologist, studying her face carefully. He'd nearly forgotten she was there and the sound of her voice had genuinely startled him from his reverie. She was always so patient with him. He didn't deserve it. "Just fine Molly," he recovered quickly.

Molly nodded, giving him a small, pleasant smile. If Sherlock said he was 'fine', it usually meant something was seriously weighing on him. But she learned it best not to mention it quite yet. "If you say so."

Sherlock went back to his experiment, scribbling down a few notes on his pad with a dieing pen. He absentmindedly made a mental note to get a new one. He couldn't very well tell Molly what was distracting him, now could he? He wasn't good with the whole emotional expression aspect of conversation. Or conversation in general. People tended to get a little freaked when you somehow managed to almost always turn the conversation topic towards murder. He couldn't imagine why.

Molly bit her tongue but couldn't restrain herself any longer. "Sherlock?"

He hummed in response, eying Molly out of the corner of his eye as he returned to his experiment.

Molly wrung her hands in a nervous gesture that didn't get past Sherlock. "You know that if there's something wrong you could- I mean, you can always-" Molly sighed. Why was it always so difficult for her to express how she felt around Sherlock? He always made her feel so nervous. Like she had to be great just to be in his presence. "It's just that, you can talk to me you know that don't you?"

Sherlock looked fully away from his microscope, blinking up at Molly, their eyes connecting. He was actually taken off guard a little by Molly's words. He knew he could trust her, she'd definitely proven herself worthy. Why would she think he didn't trust her? Had he not expressed that by putting his life in her hands. Figuratively and literally.

Sherlock just settled for nodding yes, before his mobile began to spasm in his blazer pocket. His thin fingers snatched it from his jacket. It was a text from John, he and Mary were inviting him over for dinner.

Sherlock scowled at the screen. John must have been following Sherlock's case, monitoring his case load. Waiting for the opportune moment to steel Sherlock. John was well aware that Sherlock didn't eat whilst working a case, so he patiently waited for his current one to end before pouncing.

Sherlock's first thought was of Molly. He had planned on spending his evening here in the lab, with her. He wasn't sure why, but since his return he'd taken a certain comfort in being near the pathologist. He missed his long nights out working in her lab in companionable silence. No outside world to steal away his attention. Just good old fashioned pointless experiments, working for no one but himself. Sherlock shook his head with a cynical smirk and sent his reply excepting John's offer. He was being ridiculous, Molly probably had plans elsewhere anyway.

"That John?" Molly asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, he and Mary want me over for dinner." Why did he say that? It wasn't any of Molly's business where he spent his evening or whom he spent it with.

To his surprise Molly smiled at him from where she stood above her newest corpse, scalpel in hand. He found he couldn't take his eyes off her. Not when she stood like that with that knife in her hand. "Good. You two don't spend nearly enough time together. Don't tell him, but I sort of miss him popping down here with you."

Sherlock's face morphed into a small, thoughtful scowl. He stood from his stool, snatching his scarf and coat and sliding them on. "Goodbye Molly," he snapped. His tone unintentionally harsh.

"Um, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, one foot out the door. "Yes?" He asked, not having the decency to apologize, but managing to use a softer tone. Or at least he hoped so.

"Would you, maybe, want to get dinner sometime? With me, just the two of us," Molly asked. "Obviously not tonight, but maybe tomorrow if that works for you? You know to talk, catch up a bit. You seem stressed."

Sherlock's head cocked in that curious angle. How was she always able to do that. She could pinpoint his emotions better than he himself could. He knew of Molly's feelings towards him, and he couldn't deny he felt something for her as well. He just hadn't gotten around to dissecting the specific emotion yet. That's what's been bothering; why he snapped. He was on edge because of it and he'd lashed out at one of the few he never wanted to hurt. He always seemed to do that.

Sherlock swallowed. Of course he'd like to get dinner with Molly, he'd just never given it much thought. He wasn't good at 'going out'. And he absolutely rubbish at small talk. In his own opinion he'd be an awful date. "That sounds delightful Molly. I'll give you call."

With that he swept from the morgue, his Belstaff billowing behind him, the glass doors closing with a swish like a title wave. Leaving a starstruck Molly Hooper in his wake.

* * *

"Sherlock," Mary Watson smiled widely at the beloved detective standing in her front door. She was always so happy to see Sherlock. He couldn't begin to fathom as of why. Actually he was pretty surprised to find that anyone liked him. Gosh, when did he become so cynical?

"Mary," he replied in a way of greeting. "You're looking well."

Mary only smiled and ushered him inside, "oh quit with the formalities and get inside. You can put your coat over there on the hook." Sherlock nodded and complied but didn't need to be told. He'd been in the Watson household more than enough to know where he was to hang his bloody coat.

He tossed his scarf on the rack as well, and his gloves on the shelf above before following Mary into the den. The sun had just set on his way over and the house was warmly lit by a series of lamps and a fire burning brightly in the hearth. It was a very cozy flat the Watson's occupied. Sherlock almost felt at home there. Almost.

John smiled up from his cooking as Sherlock entered the small kitchen. "Glad you could make it."

"Like I would pass up your cooking," Sherlock remarked offhandedly. It was more for appearances sake really, John always had that ability to know when something was on his mind. It came from years of first hand experience. Usually he wouldn't mind -actually he usually appreciated an opportunity to get things off his mind, he worked better by thinking out loud- but he'd rather John not know that one Molly Hooper was the cause of his distraction.

"You alright? You seem a bit distracted."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He should have known John's damned perceptive doctor eyes would have picked up on something. Sherlock was a phenomenal actor, but even he couldn't fool his best friend.

"Just fine. What are you making?" Sherlock jumped at any chance to change the subject.

John eyed him suspiciously from across the small space between them provided by the counter top. Sherlock couldn't care less what was for dinner. Sherlock couldn't care less about food in general. John's primary reason for inviting Sherlock over for dinner was simply to get him to eat. He'd been keeping up with Sherlock's case, thanks to the help of Lestrade, and having lived with the man for years, new he didn't eat during a case. And his only way of getting him to was to have him over and feed him himself.

John was practically squinting at the taller man, as though if he starred hard enough he'd get the answers he wanted. "Soup."

Sherlock nodded. He could live with that, '_I like soup. I think.'_

John shook his head. "You know if something's bothering you, you can talk to me."

To Sherlock this sounded a whole lot like a previous conversation he'd held with Molly only a half an hour ago. He really didn't want to have it again. "I'm fine John, just a lot on my mind."

John raised a brow. "Is this about the case?"

"No," Sherlock declared with a shake of his head. "No the case went perfectly. Well, as perfectly as a murder can go I suppose."

John's lips lifted in a small smile, before worry clouded his expression once more. Only this time even stronger. "There's not another country wide threat or anything is there?" John's voice came out as a harsh, low whisper. Low, as so Mary wouldn't hear. But harsh, as to get his point across clearly to his rather thick headed friend. "No _bombs_? No _assassins_? No- no criminal masterminds _popping out of the woodwork_?"

Sherlock held up a hand, quick to reassure the poor man before he gave himself a heart attack. "_No_, John. It's nothing like that, I _promise_."

He studied Sherlock's face carefully, and to be honest it was kind of freaking Sherlock our, before giving a single nod. Satisfied that Sherlock was telling him the truth. Or at least part of it. He wasn't a fool, he knew Sherlock was holding out on him. But he wouldn't pry, not yet anyway.

"Well dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes. In the meantime, would you like any tea?" John offered, a smile on his face.

Sherlock's eyes lit up, "oh god yes. I haven't had a decent cup in weeks. I'm rubbish at making tea and I think Mrs. Hudson's visiting her sister."

"What do you mean you _think _Mrs. Hudson's visiting her sister?" John asked, huffing out a laugh as he flipped the kettle on on the stove top.

Sherlock sighed, settling down in the bar stool and placing his head in his hands. He figured he'd be stating for awhile, so why not get comfy? "She's been gone for a week now. I know she said something about vacation and family. I don't know, I wasn't listening, I was busy. Double homicide, you know how it is." He said with a flippant hand gesture.

John shook his head with a smile. Well it looked like Sherlock hadn't changed much. That was a bit comforting, something's had to stay the same. And that's what Sherlock was for the lot of them, the constant in their lives.

"So," Sherlock started -rather loudly- smacking an open hand on the counter top. Also rather loudly. "How have you been? Nothing too spectacular occur in my absence I presume."

John shook his head, it was so Sherlock of him to assume nothing interesting could possibly happen without him around. Though usually he was right, nothing much happened without him there to stir up trouble.

"We haven't talked in, what-"

"Three days Sherlock."

Well that didn't sound right, "really? Well isn't that just downright shameful?" He could have sworn it was far longer than that. But he had to admit, when he was working a case two days could feel like a fortnight.

John just returned to his task of shredding the chicken. Sherlock could have sworn he was upset. "It's your own fault, you know. If you weren't such a stupid sod all the bloody time- I've been board to dirt over here. Don't get me wrong, I love Marry, she's fantastic. _We're_ fantastic! But I can't do _this_." Yep, he was upset. "I can't just go to work, come home, go to sleep, wake up, and do it all over again. Anymore if that and my limp's gonna come back."

"Well we wouldn't want that now would we?" Sherlock teased, smiling ruefully. He really hadn't meant to disconnect from John like he had. He'd just gotten swept up in the task at hand. He really had meant to give John a call and ask him I tag along, he could always use his help. If anything his presence was nice to have on a case. But time had just gotten away from him. He and Molly...

Molly. Why did his brain always freeze up when it came to Molly? She was just- well, _Molly_! He'd known her for _years_, so what had changed? He'd been back in London for over a year now, he was comfortable with the way things were. So why was this so sudden?

He'd never felt this way about Molly before. Well, maybe that wasn't true. Maybe he just wanted what he couldn't have. And when Molly was seeing someone, and it was serious supposedly, he found himself drawn to her.

But why Molly? She was just some pathologist. It wasn't like with Irene, he knew everything there was about Molly Hooper. He could read Molly like a book. She presented no mystery for him to solve, no puzzle that needed piecing. Just an open book laying out for him to read as he willed. If only he-

Sherlock's head shot up, the loud clank of a steaming mug of tea being placed on the counter before him tearing him from his thoughts. He looked up to see John looking back at him. The doctor was smiling, but a scowl creased his brow.

Sherlock faked a small smile and thanked John for the cuppa, after which John returned to preparing dinner. Chopping vegetables or whatever it was he was doing. Sherlock wasn't paying much attention. His attention was drawn away by the view of the London street three stories below. The dull glow of the street lamps shining through the window and reflecting off the smooth surface of the granite counter tops.

Sherlock aloud his mind to wander as he gazed out the window. And try as he might, he couldn't get that pathologist off his mind. It was downright maddening. "John, I think there's something I need to do."

John's face was the definition of confusion as Sherlock stood from his stool and declared that needed to go. John chased after him as he bound over to the front door. Tying his scarf around his neck and pulling his coat on. "What do you mean, you need to go?' John demanded. "You just bloody got here."

Sherlock sighed, "sorry John, this can't wait. Goodbye John, goodbye Mary!" He hollered down the hall, the front door already open.

Mary popped her head out of the dining room where she'd been setting the table. She was just in time to see the door close behind the famed detective. She turned to John, "now where's he think he's off to?"

* * *

The bitter cold of the Autumn night air nipped at Sherlock's nose and tore at his hair and clothes as he ran out into Lanark Road. He was just a lone figure standing in the sharp illuminate of the street lamp. It was a quiet neighbourhood not far from Baker Street. And with far less traffic at this hour, being that most buildings on this stretch of road were homes. Despite that, it was at least a 20 minute cab ride to Saint Bart's.

Sherlock jogged down the street a bit until he came to Sutherland Avenue. He pulled his coat tightly around his too frail frame and hailed a cab with the mastered efficiency only a trained Londoner could possess.

It was a short ride, only a few blocks away, but to Sherlock it felt like an eternity. And as the cab approached the hospital, Sherlock found he hadn't the slightest idea what he was going to say to Molly. He didn't even know of Molly was still in the morgue.

What if he was too late?

Sherlock quickly overpaid the cabbie and leapt from the automobile. He burst through the doors and sped down the stairs to the morgue, in hopes his favourite pathologist was still hard at work. It would only be natural for her to stay late, as was a habit of hers.

Molly jumped, dropping her clipboard and pen with a clatter as the morgue doors unexpectedly flung open. Snaking the wall and bouncing back. She was even more surprised to find the culprit of such a distraction to be Sherlock. He'd left nearly an hour ago. What could have possibly been so important as to distract Sherlock from dinner with John and Mary?

Molly recovered quickly, snatching her things up from where they had landed. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and glared at Sherlock as he advanced on her.

Molly was confused, Molly was surprised, you could even say Molly was a bit suspicious. But none of it mattered in the slightest when Sherlock Holmes wrapped his arms gently around her waist, pulling her tight and flush against his own body. The heat radiating off him despite the cold chill outside. No, none of it mattered when his soft lips met hers. It was a gentle, heartfelt kiss, and Molly couldn't help but feel it had ended all too soon. She'd waited her whole life for this moment. Whatever this moment was exactly.

When the need to breathe overrode their senses, the two pulled apart, but refused to release the death grip they held on one another. Molly's fists gripped Sherlock's coat hems like her life depended on it. And she'd be damned if she let go. She didn't know what had gotten into Sherlock, but she wasn't about to ruin it now.

Molly bit her lip but couldn't keep all the bubbling questions inside her from spilling out. "Sherlock, what-?"

Sherlock cut her off by planting a firm hand in front of her lips. The unanswered question left to linger in both of their heads. He knew she'd have questions, he'd just hoped she would refrain for just a bit longer. He wanted to preserve this moment for as long as he possibly could. "I apologize Molly," the supposed sociopath spoke up after another beat of silence. "I am not entirely sure what came over me, I just- well I... I am not quite sure what to say actually. So, tell me what to say...?"

Molly peered up at Sherlock from where he kept her snug against him. Her fists still clinging to his coat. He wasn't looking back at her, just staring blankly at the stark white wall ahead as though it where suddenly the most intriguing of things. Molly wasn't sure what to say either, so she didn't say anything. She just stood there, her face buried in his chest as they remained in the quiet of the morgue.

If he didn't know what to say, then what made hi think did? She had never been at a bigger loss for words in her life.

"Where do we go from here?" Molly shocked herself by being the one to speak up. Destroying the unpeaceful silence of unanswered questions.

Sherlock actually gave that one some thought in his cab ride over. His hyperactive mind playing out a billion different scenarios. "Well..." he started, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "I suppose we do... cuppley things. You know, dinner."

Molly's pink lips formed a small smile, "dinner sounds nice."

Sherlock smiled back at the pathologist he continued to hold flat against himself. Enjoying their close proximity. He relished in the comforting glow that emanate from Molly Hooper. She was familiar, and that's exactly what he needed during all the change currently developing around him. He was always left as the constant for everyone else. Always the rock grounding people, specifically John, to the surface. But who did that leave to keep him grounded? What did he have to prevent him from fluttering away?

Well, one thing was for sure, now he had Molly.


End file.
